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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290009">Stop Haunting my House</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssalzones/pseuds/Abyssalzones'>Abyssalzones</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(they're not a huge point in the story and are mostly hypothetical or pain related), Bill fucking sucks, Blood, Character Study, Drugs Mentioned, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eye Trauma, Gen, Psychosis, Suicidal Thoughts, The fiddauthor in this is background only, Trans Ford Pines, a lot of the trauma in this is second-hand or strongly implied, environmental storytelling, trans male character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:00:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290009</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssalzones/pseuds/Abyssalzones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley deals with the aftermath of the portal, and learns a few things about his brother from the state of the house he left behind. </p><p>Needless to say, his regret runs deep.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Stop Haunting my House</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well it certainly has been a while since I've posted, uh, pretty much anything on here. Figured I might as well publish some of the things I had collecting dust. Unsurprisingly, It's mostly Gravity Falls, because I refuse to get off this sinking boat and now its my personal pile of rubble. </p><p>That aside, enjoy whatever this is. </p><p>(TW for implied physical abuse and self harm by means of possession, manipulation-triggered psychosis, a brief mention of drugs, and eye trauma.)</p><p>(also, st*ncests and b*llfords can go to hell)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> This would go a lot smoother if you cut out the middleman and burnt the whole place down, </em>said a voice in Ford’s head that he knew, for once, was not Bill.</p><p><br/>
Because, unfortunately, Bill still needed him alive- and his work intact. Any attempt Ford could’ve made on his own life to try and stop him would easily be deflected anyway.</p><p><br/>
<em> But it’d be fun to watch you try. Cute, even. </em>
</p><p><br/>
There was a crime scene in his study that needed to be cleaned.</p><p>Or, at least, to the best of his ability, given how little sleep he was running on now. </p><p>All the books that had been stacked around the desk had been knocked over earlier, and Ford could vaguely remember when he’d passed out and attempted to grab something to prevent his head meeting the floor. At any other point, he would’ve torn up or burnt the papers littered with depictions of <em> him </em> ( <em> Watching. Still watching. His eyes were everywhere he turned and it stung to remember he had been the one to put it there, so eager to please his muse.) </em> but the gesture lost its catharsis after the hundredth time he’d gotten rid of them only to have them replaced the next time he opened his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
Ford realized as his stomach lurched violently that he wouldn’t be able to clean the rug, and it was filthy now ( <em> From when he’d realized control was suddenly passing beyond his reach, that he was slipping out of it and there was nothing he could do to stop it </em> , <em> his body no longer his to control and something wet dribbled from his eye onto the floor as he attempted to fight--) </em> so instead he settled on rolling the whole thing up and threw it into the corner of the room where he had started putting things he no longer wanted to look at or deal with.<br/>
<br/>
It was starting to crowd the room a little.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
In his college years, Ford had prided himself on his ability to push through the nights to get work done without the interruption of sleep. Still, he’d never gone this long before without giving in and collapsing in bed- he never realized there would be a time where he would have to.<br/>
<br/>
The cloying sensation of the eyes that crawled up and down his skin should’ve helped stave off any urge to let himself slip into restfulness ( <em> or the certainty of what would happen if he did manage to pass out again.) </em> but he realized, unhelpfully, that he was still only human. It wouldn’t be long before he felt the world start to slip away again, until everything faded back to violent laughter and endless stretching planes of void and eyes and <em> claws </em>- and he would inevitably be at the whim of--</p><p><em><br/>
</em> <em> You’re nothing but a knife to carve a hole between this plane and the next.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Experience taught Ford this was a problem too big to be solved. The thought was pessimistic, but all the hope had left his body when his last connection to another person that maybe, <em> maybe </em> could’ve helped him had walked out the door.<br/>
<br/>
He couldn’t reach out. Not only was there nowhere to begin looking, no <em> mental health </em> experts or medical professionals that could even begin to help him, but there was the fact that Bill was still the one pulling the strings. Even if someone <em> believed </em> him, even then, there was the silent promise that Bill would get to them first. <em> What happens if he gets someone else hurt? Or Bill possesses them, and he’s left vulnerable again, and-- </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em> And nothing. He wouldn’t ( <em> couldn’t.) </em> let that happen again. <em><br/>
</em><br/>
So, then, maybe Stanley. That, or a last-ditch attempt at suicide.<br/>
<br/>
His odds weren’t looking great.<br/>
<em><br/>
</em> The voice in his head (and at this point he can no longer tell if it’s Bill or his subconscious) offers its wisdom again as Ford considers the postcard he’s turning over in his hand. <em> Everyone in this world wants to hurt you for their own gain. You can’t be helped, because you’ve already lost. </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Give up, Sixer. </em> <em><br/>
</em><br/>
Whether it’s hope, or desperation, Ford sends his brother a postcard.<br/>
<br/>
<em> Help, please! </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em></p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Stanley Pines stood at the top of the stairs, and took a second to imitate breathing normally.<br/>
<br/>
“Imitate,” because he didn’t know if he would ever remember how to breathe regularly again. All the air had been sucked out of his lungs when the portal closed with his brother inside.<br/>
It was deeply overcast outside, the falling snow obscuring any sign of the sun as a tangible circle, but the fading light told him it was quickly becoming dark. He’d been downstairs, in that <em> evil-ass basement, hooked up with its own doomsday device </em>for nearly two hours. </p><p>It felt longer. It didn’t feel like long enough, either, but he couldn’t just keep trying to pull that lever stuck in the ground back and forth forever. There wasn’t much downstairs that he could use to guide him-- and as impulsive as he was, he thought better of doing anything that could irreparably fuck up the machinary. If anything could’ve helped him, it would be the other two Journals. <em> God only knows where those are.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re not a scientist, you didn’t even finish highschool. What the hell are you going to do?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Stan took his hand off his face and actually, for once, tried to process his surroundings.<br/>
<br/>
When he had first been taken inside, he had been overwhelmed by what he was seeing. Machinery he didn’t recognize seemed to completely take over what must have once resembled a living space, anything that once implied habitation had been shoved to the side or put away haphazardly to make room for devices that blinked and buzzed and spat out lines of numbers on paper. The cabin was in a complete state of disrepair, as if all basic house care had been neglected for weeks.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, Ford’s kitschy decorating skills were as recognizable as ever, but this time in the form of any furniture still upright and anatomical models with their heads turned away and their eyes covered up. </p><p>Everything had slowed to a halt now. There was no noise or rush, only the artifacts of an empty house to sort through for clues, making Stan feel like some half-assed detective.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe a ghost.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The clocks in Ford’s house had all been stopped at varying times in the same hour. Some of them, like the more ornate cuckoo clock still hanging on the wall at a crooked angle, had seemingly just stopped out of nowhere-- but there was a broken wrist-watch in the drawer that looked like it had been smashed to pieces with a hammer that made him believe someone had purposefully gone around, for whatever reason, methodically stopping every clock.<br/>
<br/>
Stan straightened the cuckoo clock in the hallway on autopilot. It was <em> very </em> much like his brother to collect this hokey rustic cabin stuff.<br/>
<br/>
Then again, Stan couldn’t be so sure he still knew his brother at all.<br/>
<br/>
He’d expected things to be different after ten years, but the crossbow that had been aimed at his face as soon as the door had swung open had gone beyond what he’d expected as far as a cold welcome. Every little unexpected aspect of the house of what may as well be a dead man ( <em> He’s not dead. You can get him back.) </em> jolted Stan back to the reality that his brother had changed in ways he could no longer predict. He remembered his initial shock at how different he was, face pale and scratchy with an uncharacteristic lack of a shave ( <em> That, combined with the strong jaw of their father led Stan to wonder where the hell Ford had gotten testosterone out in the middle of nowhere-ville, Oregon. </em> ) and eyes sunken into dark, exhausted raccoon circles.<br/>
<br/>
He wished he’d gotten a better look. Stan was too caught up in everything happening to ask about the bruise on his forehead, or the band-aids littering his fingers and the visible parts of his hands and wrists.<br/>
<br/>
Stan felt that he was going to be blaming himself about not stopping him, not taking a second to <em> ask, </em>to stop the fight before it began, for a very long time. </p><p> </p><p>Initially he wanted to check the kitchen, since his legs had begun to feel shaky and weak underneath his weight and he had <em> really </em> been depending on his brother to offer him something to eat, but his hands were filthy from scrambling around in the grimy basement machinery and he had learned a long time ago from being on the road to use any sink presented to him when he had the chance.<br/>
<br/>
Stanley had been homeless long enough to see a lifetime’s worth of terrible things, and then some. Do enough travelling, you’ll start to see tragedy everywhere. Prison and scrapes with death had desensitized him when it came to the potentially upsetting-- but something about when he opened the bathroom door only to see <em> red </em> took him by surprise.<br/>
<br/>
The sink was spattered with blood, drain clogged with unsightly clots and pill bottles. The floor was in a similar state, tiling slicked over and stained, no attempt to remove the rug that was almost certainly trashed.<br/>
<br/>
The mirror was shattered, and through his fragmented reflection Stan could see the blood still between the cracks of the impact.<br/>
<br/>
Stan’s stomach suddenly lurched, and he shut the door. Guilt fueled his growing sense of terror while his brain struggled to process what had <em> happened. What happened to Ford that could’ve done this? Wasn’t he supposed to be the good twin? </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em> After hesitating, he sucked in air through his teeth, and pushed the door back open. He tried not to look closely enough to think about the implications. Just close enough to understand the basics.<br/>
<br/>
He wasn’t a detective, though. There wasn’t much to glean beyond what was right in front of him.<br/>
<br/>
The bathtub was in a particularly grimy state; it hadn’t been used recently, but something about the water stains that outlined the inside looked and felt off. The edge of the tub had dried out bandaging hanging over the sides, stained a dark, putrid brown with dried blood. Stanley couldn’t help but feel like he was standing in the middle of a crime scene-- the only thing missing was any tape to keep him from prying further into his brother’s secrets.<br/>
<br/>
Stan decided to look inside the medicine cabinet, careful not to cut himself on the broken glass, but most of the pills were already in the sink. He sighed a breath of relief when he saw they were mostly regular brand-name over the counter drugs, but that didn’t exactly rule out the possibility that his brother had been on something when he’d gotten to him. Ford’s manic state had reminded him of some of his darker moments living on the streets-- but he shook his head, and chalked it up to coffee and paranoia caused by something else. His brother was too scared to cop a cigarette when they were teenagers, let alone meddle with drugs. <em><br/>
</em><br/>
Stan had hoped, when he had seen Ford’s state of mind firsthand, that this was nothing more than a contained psychosis. Of <em> course </em> his twin would bite off more than he could chew, isolate himself from the world, stay in a cabin in the middle of nowhere for long enough that he inevitably cracked-- it was exactly the kind of thing he’d do. All he would need then was some help. Stan had no hopes for any recovery of his own, and had long since stopped believing in professionals, but Ford wasn’t doomed like him. He’d get help, real honest-to-God <em> help </em> , and be back on his feet in no time.<br/>
<br/>
But it was too good to be true. He knew deep down this was bigger than something self-induced- and he had the sneaking suspicion someone was threatening his brother, but--<br/>
<br/>
<em> Too late for that now. </em><br/>
<br/>
Stan held his breath, and walked out of the bathroom. The implications of what he’d seen were a little too visceral to digest, let alone attempt to clean.<br/>
<br/>
Right now, all he could do was investigate. He could clean later. For now, he opted to wash his hands in the kitchen sink.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
Stan had to shove the piles of dishes out of the way just to get to the water spout to wash his hands with what little dish soap remained. <em> You really had to leave me to clean up your whole damn house, huh Poindexter?  </em></p><p>He didn’t like cleaning at the best of times, often falling into the habits of what you’d call a sedentary lifestyle-- but he especially didn’t look forward to the inevitable task of picking up after his dead twin. </p><p><em> (Not dead. Missing.) </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em>Stan didn’t expect much when he opened the fridge, but couldn’t help but be disappointed to see the inside of Ford’s fridge was almost completely barren. Spare, of course, for a taxidermied frog in a jar. </p><p>He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed the fridge. He expected the freezer to be much in the same state, but silently sent a quick IOU to God at the sight of a frozen bag of peas. </p><p><em> Salvation at last. </em> <em><br/>
</em><br/>
He washed out a pot that had been left to fester in the sink, heating up the peas over the stove top with an impatience that was interrupted by the occasional hunger pangs. While he waited he looked through the cabinets, and was thankful for the much more plentiful results than what he had found in the fridge. Peaches and beans were in relative supply in cans, and Stan had never been so happy to meet the creepy gaze of the mascot on the can of baked beans in his life. </p><p> </p><p>While helping himself heartily to a bowl of soggy peas, sat on the kitchen floor, Stan noticed a picture frame had been turned over on the window terrace. Eventually his curiosity got the better of him, and once he was done eating he set the empty bowl aside (there was no counter space, so he just put it on the floor to worry about later) and walked over to turn it over.<br/>
<br/>
His heart sputtered weakly seeing his brother again. The glass in the frame was broken, but with an incredible amount of tact for his reputation, Stan managed to slide the Polaroid out.<br/>
<br/>
Ford was dressed in a graduation gown, and one of those dumbass hats, and Stan couldn’t even find the energy to be bitter over it. He was younger, but still much older than he had looked when he left <em> (In a much further along state of transition, no doubt </em> ) and stood next to someone Stan didn’t recognize, arms around each other's shoulders. The other graduate had a more strawberry-golden shade of hair, as well as darker skin, and gangly twig-like limbs that set him a few inches taller than Ford. The ponytail he had his hair held back into combined with the round-lensed glasses made Stan think of the many tambourine-toting hippies he’d encountered on the road, usually trying to sell or be sold weed.<br/>
<br/>
His brother clearly had been living his own life, happy and complete, away from him. <em> Something </em> had happened, but he could’ve gotten it back- and now Stan had taken that all away over some <em> stupid, childish grudge. </em></p><p>He turned the photo around, only to see the photo dated <em> May 21, 1975 </em> in his brother’s distinct cursive scrawl. In much neater handwriting underneath it read, <em> Don’t forget about me, city boy! </em> <em><br/>
<br/>
</em></p><p>Stan snorted something resembling a laugh. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He had to keep poking around, of course. It had gone from something to do to uncover a way to fix the portal to something that he felt obligated to do. He debated internally over whether it could be morally wrong to snoop through the secrets of a missing man who went through a <em> lot </em>of effort to conceal his secrets, but Stan was beyond the point of caring about what that might say about his own morals. He’d done worse, and Ford wasn’t around to keep secrets anymore. </p><p>Part of Stan dreaded looking through Ford’s bedroom, but he figured he’d have to make an attempt at sleeping some time. The rest of his house, while fallen into a state of disrepair, did it’s best not to reveal too much of what Stan already suspected from the bathroom (<em> and the paranoia. And the flinching. And the blood. And the bruises--) </em> In most cases, people tend to keep what they <em> don’t </em> want you to see in their bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>But he was already on the ground floor, standing outside the door to Ford’s room, hand resting on the doorknob like he was waiting for permission that was never going to come.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Eventually he found himself pushing open the door. Maybe it was due to what he’d already seen of his bathroom, but Stan was expecting worse. Regardless of the lack of anything immediately indicating a grisly crime scene, he still felt uneasy walking over laundry and garbage that had made its home on the floor. There was a futon on one side of the room, but Ford’s bed had been tucked into the corner. Oddly enough, it was almost completely stripped of sheets, and entirely devoid of blankets.<br/>
<br/>
Stan lied to himself that there was nothing concerning about how they were, instead, covering the full-length mirror against the wall. </p><p> </p><p>He opened the closet with the idea in mind that he was looking for blankets (even if he knew it wasn’t true as he opened the door) but noticed a cardboard box sitting on the closet floor. He crouched down to get a better look, and as he opened the lid of the box, he choked on something in the back of his throat.<br/>
<br/>
Notebooks, keep-sakes, textbooks, a Polaroid camera, and a stack of photos that he found himself fixating on almost immediately.<br/>
<br/>
Stan had already glimpsed through the journal that had been frantically thrown in his direction, seen the kinds of pictures Ford had taken-- bizarre creatures, anomalies that had been documented as “ <em> scientifically </em> ” as his brother could bother with, barely containing his excitement. He wasn’t expecting to find any personal photos, but here they were.<br/>
<br/>
A series of photos from what he assumed was a visit to the lake in town, a skinny man with recognizably long hair in a flannel shirt walking down the shoreline, candid shots of his brother and the same man blurrily attempting to take pictures (and failing spectacularly, laughing too hard to keep still), and a picture of Ford fast asleep in bed with the morning sun peaking through the window, the curls around his face in a state of disaster.<br/>
<br/>
<em> Oh. Huh. </em></p><p>Stanley couldn’t say he was surprised. His brother had never really shown any interest in pursuing women as they’d grown up, while Stan himself had gone through his fair share of relationships without any real regard for gender. It was nothing he wouldn’t expect from the twin who’d always been wrapped up in just how <em> different </em>he was.</p><p>What he <em> wasn’t </em>expecting was the pictures under the camera, much more worn from time and experience. Pictures of Stanley. Pictures of them growing up. Pictures he’d completely given up hope on recovering after getting kicked out, and had all but assumed Ford had thrown away.</p><p> </p><p>He’d been going through the house his brother had left in near-shambles, finding bits and pieces of some mystery he didn’t <em> want </em>to comprehend, but until now he’d tried to detach himself from the fact that this had all happened to his brother. </p><p><br/>
<em>The same brother you pushed into the portal.</em>
</p><p><br/>
He couldn’t keep up the act anymore. Stan leaned over the box with all its abandoned notebooks and photographs- like it was all he had left of his twin- and he let himself break. </p><p><br/>
<em> Oh God, Ford, what happened to you? </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks. kill me</p></blockquote></div></div>
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